


The Starry Sky Above

by lorata



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-05
Updated: 2014-02-05
Packaged: 2018-01-11 05:35:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1169300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lorata/pseuds/lorata
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>No ceiling bearin' down on me, save the starry sky above</i><br/><i>With light in my head, with you in my arms</i><br/>- The Waterboys, Fisherman's Blues</p><p> <i>He follows Haymitch to the front door, pausing to tug on his boots. Finnick leans a hand on Haymitch's back for balance (when he was fourteen he killed a tribute while straddling two slippery rocks in the middle of a rushing stream), feeling the heat beneath his fingers. </i></p><p>Finnick hates winter in District Twelve more than anything else. Fortunately for him, Haymitch isn't going to let him sit around and mope the whole time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Starry Sky Above

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Trovia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trovia/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Spin Control](https://archiveofourown.org/works/814736) by [Trovia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trovia/pseuds/Trovia). 



> A missing scene from the Chapter 14 of Spin Control, which you should read as it's chock-full of amazing, painful character stuff, and treats a lot of the victor issues that get brushed aside in canon (alcoholism, eating disorders, PTSD) very, very seriously.
> 
> This is fluffy, because I felt like it.

December should not be this cold.  
  
December in Four is the one of the things that makes the victors from other districts tease Finnick about being a baby in winter, like he didn't survive the night in the Arena when temperatures plunged below freezing and take out two mutts that tracked him through the snow, though he'll admit he'd be fine never doing that again. In Four, December means cool, pleasant nights to sit on the beach without humidity or mosquitoes; the Capitol tends to call for less fish in the winter months, and that means lower quotas for everyone and less pressure to drag every last fish from the ocean.  
  
In Twelve, all Finnick can think is _cold_. Cold and wet and uncomfortable and impossible to escape, and no matter how much Finnick seals the doors and windows in his house it still creeps in. Summer in Four might feel like having a gigantic dog panting, hot and heavy, behind your neck, and the air might have the rough consistency of lukewarm soup, but Finnick's used to it. It's comforting. It also doesn't cause awful, hacking coughs in everyone he passes.  
  
It's going to be a miserable month, and Finnick isn't sure how he'll be able to deal with the Victory Tour and its sharp reminder of the loss of Bee and Raif with winter already sucking him down like this.  
  
"Hey." Haymitch raps on the doorframe, leaning against the wood. He's wearing a hideous sweater; not Capitol-stylist-approved, this one, it's clearly handmade with scraps of yarn, and Finnick can't tell what's on the front of it, some kind of animal with what looks like lightning bolts coming out of its head. Finnick gets as far as the first chuckle when Haymitch throws a jacket at his head. "Suit up, we're going out."  
  
"What?" Finnick pushes open the curtain and peers through the frost-rimmed glass; stars peek out through the patches of black behind the trees, so at least it won't be snowing, but really? "Are you kidding me? I'm not going out there at night."  
  
Haymitch snorts, and a pair of gloves comes sailing across the room to nail Finnick right in the face -- or would have, if Finnick hadn't caught them. "C'mon, quitcher bitching and let's go."  
  
"You know, if you want me to leave you could just say so," Finnick grouses, pulling on the coat and gloves, and Haymitch gives him a look that says _yeah-huh_ but doesn't say anything. It's the kind of complaining that's familiar and soothing, no real barbs underneath.  
  
He follows Haymitch to the front door, pausing to tug on his boots. Finnick leans a hand on Haymitch's back for balance (when he was fourteen he killed a tribute while straddling two slippery rocks in the middle of a rushing stream), feeling the heat beneath his fingers.  
  
Haymitch leads them up through the street, then takes a sharp turn off to his usual spot to go through the fence. "Okay, I was kidding before about wanting to get rid of me, but now I'm not sure," Finnick says. His breath huffs in the air, a soft white cloud in front of his face.  
  
He doesn't have to see Haymitch to know he rolls his eyes. "You're in fine form today," Haymitch says. He holds up the barbed wire with one hand, and with the other he waves an elaborate bow. "After you," he says, like he's holding the door for Finnick at the classiest restaurant in the Capitol. Finnick swallows an odd prickle of sentimentality and slips through the gap, Haymitch close behind.  
  
They walk together in silence, boots snapping against fallen twigs. The snow in Twelve is too wet to crunch the way it does in TV dramas, but in the dark under the moonlight it shimmers in a way that almost makes Finnick forget how grey and unpleasant it looks in daylight. He's still not used to the bulk of his winter gear, and one boot catches on a tree root. Finnick stumbles, grunting in annoyance, but stops when Haymitch curls a hand at his elbow, holding him steady.  
  
Even after Finnick gains his balance Haymitch doesn't let go, just adjusts the angle so they can keep walking without bumping. Finnick holds his breath until he realizes the lack of condensation in the air will make it obvious, and so he lets it all out in a rush.  
  
It's dark, but Finnick is used to navigating by stars and landmarks, and after a while he gives Haymitch a startled look. "The lake? Now?"  
  
"We ain't swimming," Haymitch says. "Just shut up and be patient."  
  
"You know, it's your charm that drew me to you," Finnick drawls. Haymitch chuckles, and the way he laughs when he's sober is so unlike the low, sliding, nasty way he laughed when drunk and miserable that something catches in Finnick's chest.  
  
At last they reach the lake, and Haymitch reaches into the hollow tree and pulls out a blanket, spreading it out on the ground. "There," he says, hands in his pockets. "Never say I didn't do anything fancy for you."  
  
Finnick sits, leaning back on his hands, and Haymitch joins him, carefully not looking at him. "Okay," Finnick says, waiting for Haymitch to explain, but nothing happens.  
  
"What's the date today?" Haymitch asks instead.  
  
"Uh, it's the fourteenth." Finnick wracks his brain, but nothing comes up, no birthdays, anniversaries, nothing that he'd be in trouble for not remembering.  
  
"And it's what, around nine?" Haymitch makes a show of looking at his wrist, despite him not wearing a watch on it as long as Finnick can remember.  
  
"Haymitch, I have no idea what you're --"  
  
"Shut up and watch." Finnick gives Haymitch the side-eye, and finally Haymitch snorts, grabs him by the chin and tilts his head up. "Not me, idiot, the sky."  
  
Finnick waits for the punchline, and several minutes pass without incident until one of the stars falls loose from the sky and sails toward the horizon in a flash. A minute later comes another, and Finnick sucks in a breath because of course, it's the midwinter meteor shower. Back in Four they would head out to the beach after the sun went down, packing tins of food they'd cooked earlier that day because a campfire would spoil their night vision, and sit together and watch the stars fall. He'd forgotten about it this year amid everything else that happened, but also because it seemed so intrinsically tied to _home_ that he'd never even considered that the same sky stretched all the way to District Twelve.  
  
"I figured it might do you a bit of good," Haymitch says, and Finnick sneaks a glance but he's looking up at the sky. "I know you miss home like crazy because that's how it goes, all the things that drive you nuts fade away when you're not there. I know everything's different here. There's no ocean and there's all these trees in the way and of course we're freezing our asses off out here, but." A meteor big enough to cast a brief glow makes its way across the sky, highlighting the sharp hook of Haymitch's nose and the angle of his jaw. "Not everything's different."  
  
Finnick looks back up, and the angle is different and it sure is cold but the stars are the same, the patterns and their place in the sky, and the lake reflects the meteors the same as the ocean does -- better, even, for want of ripples. A knot loosens in his chest, and he lets out a breath. Finnick shifts position, putting his weight on his left hand, and he moves his right over inch by inch until he finds Haymitch and links their fingers.  
  
They don't move, don't comment. Haymitch doesn't acknowledge the touch at all, except in that he lets it continue, and that's more than enough.  
  
They stay outside until Finnick honestly can't feel his toes anymore, and at last Haymitch heaves himself up with a grunt. "Okay, I've got frost growing in my hair," he grumbles, and Finnick scrambles to his feet. "Let's head back before I have to carry you back and explain to the folks in Four why they've got an Odairsicle instead of a victor."  
  
Finnick waits while Haymitch rolls up the blanket and stuffs it back in the tree, and maybe it's the cold in his brain, but he darts forward, catches Haymitch by the lapel and kisses him. Their mouths are cold and Haymitch's stubble prickles like it really might be freezing, but then Haymitch's gloved hands come up to hold Finnick's face, and the longer they kiss the warmer it feels.  
  
Finally Haymitch pushes Finnick back. "Seriously, you whine all the time about being cold, and now you can't wait until we're nice and warm inside," he snipes, but Finnick knows him now, and there's no real acid behind his words.  
  
"I just like to keep you on your toes," Finnick says. Haymitch rolls his eyes again.  
  
He doesn't push it, and they walk back together, trailing pine branches to mess up their footprints enough that the Peacekeepers won't be able to spot them unless they're really looking. They walk all the way back to the Victors' Village, and when it's time to separate Finnick pauses in the middle of the lane. "Come in for some cider?" he asks. "The house will warm up faster if there's two of us."  
  
Haymitch quirks an eyebrow, and maybe one day they can do this without the pretence, without the little games and quips that make it okay, but for now Finnick doesn't care if he has to say it in a tongue-twister if it means Haymitch will say yes. "Yeah, sure," Haymitch says, knocking Finnick's shoulder. "Why not."


End file.
